Page 4 of Too Hostile

I have no doubt he’s had everything handed to him. He’s never had to worry about a damn thing in his life, and he has no problem walking in here three minutes after the bell.

He just flops into a chair in the front row and shrugs. “Really couldn’t be helped today, Professor.” I hate the way he says Professor. It rolls off his tongue far too easily. Almost like a purr, his eyes flashing with a sinister, menacing delight.

“No?” I ask, keeping my voice even and calm, even though I want to challenge him. I want to make him see how arrogant and annoying he really is.

“Nope.” The p in the word pops on his full lips, a smirk forming right after. “My mom broke into my place.”

There are snickers all around the packed lecture hall, and I can feel the vein in my neck throbbing.

Yup. This is how I die. I’m going to stroke out right here in what used to be my happy place. Teaching economics may seem like a boring path to me, but I love it. I’ve loved every second of being a college professor, except when cocky assholes like Fletcher Moore walk in here like they own the place.

I’m in charge here.

Not. Him.

And so far, he’s been the absolute worst. Completely and totally unconcerned.

“And how exactly did your mother do that?” I ask, although I’m not sure why I bother. I should just go on with the lecture. Mr. Moore has stolen more than enough time from my class today.

But I swear everyone in the room is waiting with bated breath for the all too charming young man—little shithead— to answer my question. “Well, she has a key.” He shrugs his oversized shoulders again. He may act like a kid, and he may be a freshman in college, but the guy is built like a professional linebacker. Huge and muscled. Doesn’t even try to hide it by wearing a blue and white tank top and shorts that hug his broad thighs. Nope.

I don’t notice the way his arm muscles flex as he leans back in his chair confidently.

Nope. Not. At. All.

“Why does your mom have a key? You’re nineteen.” I’m assuming.

“Eighteen,” he says with a smile, and I groan. It’s the end of the year, most freshmen are nineteen, but he must have a summer birthday. “Just turned eighteen in January actually,” he says far too proudly, and my eyes narrow at him.

“You started college before you turned eighteen?”

“Yup.” Again, with that damn popping p. “Graduated from high school a year early.”

My lips part in surprise, but I fight asking him anything about that. I also fight trying to wrap my head around that. He must have had that handed to him too. Maybe he was such a pain in the ass in high school, they just pushed him through.

That would make sense to me, for damn sure.

“You’re still an adult.” Although that word doesn’t sound right to describe the guy. He’s as childish as they come. Carefree. Unbothered. Annoying as fuck. “Why does your mother have a key to your place?”

And why the hell do I keep engaging with him? I have to stop.

His bicep flexes when he reaches behind his head to grasp the back of the chair, showing off trimmed dark hair under his pits and a thick vein that runs up the taut muscle.

I inadvertently lick my lips, then force my gaze away from his flexed arm.

Jesus fucking Christ. What if someone saw that?

I’m so damn glad this semester is almost over. Fletcher isn’t going to be an economics major, no way in hell. So he’s almost out of my damn hair and not my problem.

Two more weeks.

That’s it.

“Well, she does pay for the place,” he says effortlessly, like it’s no big deal that he mooches off his parents.

“Your mother pays your rent?”

I hear more snickering all around us, but my eyes remain only on Fletcher. “Of course. You look annoyed, Professor.” He smirks widely at me, and I feel my entire body tense up even more. “Shouldn’t you love that? It’s very economical.”

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